Denial . . . we were all in denial . . . at least I was. Do I hope I'm someday where Grace just was (you go girl) or do I hope I never have to be there (I'm praying for you) or am I still into denial and I really don't think any of that is ever going to happen (I know I'll wake up at Simpson soon)? Hmmm. At least we're done with math . . . FOREVER!!!! Love my grads (as in graduates).

Is it a step forwards or backwards? Where am I going? Will I revert and not remember any of what I’ve learned? Aren’t these the same fears I had when leaving? And now I’m back where I started. I’ve come full circle. This feels like a Starbucks mural.

I can still remember being a little girl, staring out the window at my brothers going biking, camping with friends, or off to some dangerous adventure of which I was not allowed to be a part. But those were my brothers! Why couldn’t I go, I would wonder. Even as I grew older and understood why I wasn’t included, the feelings of being left behind never became less.

At thirteen my friends and older brothers became very involved with a program that allowed them to travel all over the country helping with children’s programs and doing different ministries. It also offered several seminars for young people. My parents felt I was too young to be involved with any of this. But my friends were doing it! And my brothers! And when we were all together, they would talk about experiences and mutual friends and times they shared while I was . . . well . . . I was left behind. That’s how I saw it.

Now I wonder, was I left behind? Or was it just that I’m different. I’m not my friends and I’m not my brothers and when I finally became involved I did different things. I didn’t do much with the organization though. I started working. I started working way before any of my friends, and I had experiences while working that they were never able to relate to in the remotest way. When I came to college, no one understood why I wanted to leave. College was not in their plans. Those who agreed with my decision didn’t approve of the college I chose. Some knew I would change and now I feel like I have to show them I haven’t. But I have. Again, am I left behind . . . or left out?

They’re all doing other things. They’re working and starting ministries. That’s not for me. This is where God called me. My path is different. So am I left behind? No. Not when my path is going in a different direction. I followed my path to Simpson College where I found a group of great people with similar vision! Because of the shared dreams and similar direction, I was able to develop friendships.

I was scared to leave home. I had learned so much at work and home and I knew I would change so much when I left. I changed, but I only added to what I had become at home. The changes were changes and they were the changes I feared, the ones I saw as bad. But they weren’t bad. Just changes—they built me up. They didn’t replace who I was. Now I’m scared to go home. Those people are in an entirely different place. Do I have enough faith to trust that my vision will hold fast when I’m away from my road? Am I truly away from it, or am I just coming into a shady area, where I may not be so certain of where I’m going or what I’m doing. Where people won’t be so eager to support and rally around me. So stepping out (or back?) in faith once more, I have to reverse all these thoughts as I often have to do when being introspective. I have to remember to give my friends, who are also on other paths, support and courage as they go through their shady areas—and always remember my dad’s favorite quote, “Darn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!”

Anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strength.

-Charles Spurgeon

The race is not to the swift
or the battle to the strong,
nor does food come to the wise
or wealth to the brilliant
or favor to the learned;
but time and chance happen to them all. (Ecc. 9:11)

Be warned, my son, of anything in addition to them. Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body.(Ecc. 12:12)

'k that was for finals.

I'm going to say a few things about my friend, Mr. pots--or mr. pans. u c, his name sounds like pots and pans crashing down some stairs. He told me that himself. So I haven't decided if it should be pots, or pans. Pan is taken by Peter of course. So it's Mr. Pots.

I rarely agree with people like Mr. Pots. That's because I hope they will disagree with me. However, tonight I agreed and forgot to tell him. So yes, Mr. Pots, GraciLu has given me a great goal to shoot for, but becomming her mirror image should not be that goal. I, too, am curious to see who I become. I was even struggling with it this very evening as I missed our little girl. I'm glad you reminded me that I've had a good example, but now it's up to me to develope into my own person. In a way, it may be kinda good that Ms. Freebush is a senior, although it pains me to say it.

Although mr. pots and I had many enlightening dicussions this evening, I believe we left one subject foggy. I will enlighten him now:

The definition of "a crush," mr. pots, can differ greatly. Now, I cannot speak for everyone, but I get somewhat of a buz when I talk to a "new" guy. When I feel sleepy I think, "do I get cafine or talk to that group of guys over there?" Because of my social challenges gender-wise, I typically end up going for the Coke. But when I get excited upon talking to any particular gentlman, I consider it a crush. Yes, there are some gentlemen one just couldn't get a buz over if one tried (such as certain Spring Banquet Date Candidates). No matter, my crushes range many and frequent, and, therefore, I rarely try to keep up with them. It has been said (by me) that a girl can have a crush on anyone, untill she gets to know them. Then the crush potential disapears and they're just another guy. 'k. nuff about this. back to history. Goodnight ladies and gentlemen

Some people think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go.

- Sylvia Robinson

Reflection

Today I found a friend--a true friend. I found him in a basement. It was the basement of a huge old hotel in downtown Redding. Strange, yes. I found him amongst incense smoke, burning candles, liturgies, prayers, readings, and gestures that were as foreign to me as the icons he kissed and the long robes he wore. My friend is a Greek Orthodox priest and I listened to his beautiful message, his readings and prayers, his songs and gestures then I met his congregation. I met a young lady who had struggled in life before finding salvation there. I met her family and friends and ate a Syrian meal with them. We talked all about food and family as my grandfather and great grandparents were Lebanese and I loved sharing their ethnic food with them. I’d heard stories of my mom’s Greek Orthodox Church and it was exciting to experience it. When I finally met my friend we connected right away. He said that many Simpson College students come for a little bit then leave after he has one or two serious conversations with them. Later I stopped him and said,
“I would like to have one of the conversations that cause students to leave someday.”
He was taken aback. We talked a bit more then:
HIM: (timid) well, I think that . . . um, maybe there are some, well, troublemakers at your school sometimes.
ME: I try
HIM: Oh, yeah! Gimme five! (Priestly arm flies into the air and priestly hand hits mine)
We talked about a lot from there. I told him how I had discovered my own hypocrisy in claiming to be a part of the body of Christ and ignoring the mass of that body. I told him that Simpson students are deathly afraid of tradition and yet God works great things through tradition. “Tradition fills in the gaps,” says the priest. “It expresses those deep feelings, thoughts, desires that we could never express on our own.” They are time-tempered motions full of beautiful truth—passages through which the spirit of God can flow freely. We talked about organized religion. “I talked to a friend the other day who felt that the spirit couldn’t flow through organized religion,” said I, “I said that all religion is organized unless you have anarchy. The spirit cannot flow through anarchy or confusion.” He heartily agreed and mentioned our order of worship is highly traditional for our church. “And what’s the difference between raising your hands in church and crossing yourself, I’d like to know!” said I. “Let’s talk icons,” said my priestly friend. “If I kiss an icon it’s idol worship. If a Roman Catholic has a statue it’s idol worship. But if you pledge allegiance to the flag in the middle of a religious ceremony, it’s patriotic!” “The Christian flag too,” I mentioned with growing disgust. “You have a pledge for that if I’m not mistaken,” he said. “We sure do.” Gee wiz, I thought later, we stand and pledge our allegiance to a flag! Idol worship comes from the heart. Where are we focused, what do we feel, do we think the image’s destruction symbolizes the destruction of what if represents? This is idol worship. The rest is reverence for what it symbolizes. The heart is the difference. My friend liked me and I liked him. We talked a long time about more than this, then he invited me back later. I’m glad I made a friend.